


The taste of polyjuice

by geek_in_glasses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Denial, Duelling, Enemies to Not Enemies, Felix Felicis, Getting Together, Infatuated Harry, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Secrets, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geek_in_glasses/pseuds/geek_in_glasses
Summary: The first time it starts, he never expects it to get this far. But it shouldn't matter anyway. So Harry drinks polyjuice potions of Draco often...so what? It doesn't really mean anything, right? One-shot set in Hogwarts





	The taste of polyjuice

He hadn’t really meant to like the potion that much.

The third time that he takes it, he can picture his inner Hermione raising her eyebrows at him, and he scowls at her. Then quickly realizes that Myrtle is trying to peek into his stall, so he just downs the rest of the potion in one dizzily satisfying gulp and exits, peering at himself in the mirror while she scours the now-empty stall for clues. His raven-black locks turn to pale blond for what he swears is the last time this month and he savours the aristocratic cheekbones and deliciously sharp jaw with the flat of his palm, grinning at himself in a way that he wouldn’t ever be able to imagine the real Malfoy doing. It does funny things to his chest, so he ignores it, just as he ignores Hermione smirking knowingly at him in his head, having crept in unbidden once again.

So, he has a bit of a problem. So what? There are weirder things to like. It’s not like he’s _addicted_ to the Polyjuice of Malfoy, it’s just that he finds it tastes a little bit like lemons and salt, refreshingly sweet and tantalizing on his tongue. And, well, there’s nothing suspicious about liking the taste of your bitter rival slash ex Death Eater who now seems dubiously decent and inexplicably fascinating. No, that’s very…normal, Harry assures himself.

The first time Harry took the potion, it was because he just _knew_ the stupidly pointy blond git was up to something. He had been sitting in the Library and hadn’t even looked up when Harry came in – or even when he sat at the same table, and set his books down with a large thump. Then when Harry had cleared his throat, he’d merely glanced up, eyebrows raised pointedly, to see what Harry had to say. As if he couldn’t care less whether it was his arch-nemesis or a squeaky first-year. Harry was his worst enemy, for Merlin’s sakes! He deserved a little more respect.

Clearly something was afoot, but when Harry confronted Hermione and Ron about it in the common room that evening, he was devastated to see that they had been sucked in by Malfoy’s innocent guise.

“It’s an act! It’s a bloody act! Can’t you see? He’s up to – to something! We have to find out what he’s doing, before he…blows up the castle, or something!”

Unfortunately for him, Ron and Hermione seemed more amused than terrified.

“Blows up the castle?” Ron had repeated with a snort. “Right, and then he’ll apparate in a dozen Trolls to put on an Irish jig in celebration.”

Harry’s passionately indignant response was cut off by an exasperated Hermione. “How many times do I have to tell you that you cannot apparate on and off the grounds of Hogwarts?!”

“Right, but if it’s destroyed, then well…” Ron mused, and eventually the conversation devolved into Harry scowling into his furiously retrieved copy of Quidditch Weekly as Hermione and Ron debated what might happen to Hogwarts after it was consumed by either “Engorgio-d termites,” or “Fiendfyre, honestly Ron, who would go to the trouble of creating an army of magical termites to chew the school, which could obviously be easily stopped by magic anyway.”

In between shouts of, “You cannot Avada Kevadra a building, Ron!” and “Well no one’s ever tried, have they?” Harry had realized that if he didn’t stop Malfoy, pretty soon he might succumb to the madness which had descended upon the two of his best friends. In fact, he might even begin to like him! Harry had shuddered at the thought. Clearly, urgent measures were necessary.

So, he had swiped a couple of hairs from Malfoy when he sat in front of Harry in Potions, and quietly slipped them into his pocket (before sniffing them a couple of times, because…he needed to make sure they weren’t cursed – yes, that was it). Malfoy had turned around, eyes glinting suspiciously, and Harry had caught his breath, his heart swooping pleasantly and unexpectedly as he saw Malfoy’s (deliciously) disgruntled expression. But that had just been because he was afraid of getting caught, of course. It was a dangerous operation, and Harry couldn’t risk Malfoy being suspicious of him. Still, when Malfoy did a quick once-over of his face before turning around, Harry couldn’t help forcing himself to draw his attention away from the curious flutter in his stomach and back to the worn book in front of him.

When he’d first tasted the potion, though – almost a month after that class – it’d reminded him of lemonade at the Dursley’s. It was one of the few good memories he had of his childhood, when Aunt Petunia was too busy spying on the neighbours to properly yell at him and Dudley was absorbed in the telly, home for the summer hols.

Yet disappointingly enough, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini (who Harry didn’t really like, because honestly, what was he doing spending all that time with Malfoy, sharing smiles and laughs and obviously helping him plot his evil machinations?) didn’t really reveal anything in the five minutes Harry was with them before the real Malfoy walked in.

Harry had been biding his time since then - keeping an eye on Malfoy in the Marauder’s map whenever he could, staying close to him in the halls, and even going as far as buying a batch of Felix felicis - but the second time had actually been an accident. They’d been playing inter-house Quidditch – an exercise in ‘inter-house unity’ after the war, which unfortunately meant Malfoy joining in the mix, and often distracting Harry from the snitch with the ridiculously stupid way his shirt would stick to his body, revealing the shape of muscles and toned skin underneath – when Harry had accidentally pulled Malfoy’s hair, a few strands coming loose in his palm. So he’d spun around and hightailed off to the other end of the pitch to avoid the death-glares sent in his direction, and not-so accidentally stuffed the glistening locks in his pocket (before smelling them once again, because you could never be too careful).

And then he obviously couldn’t have let them go to waste…that would be stupid. So he’d (eagerly) taken a bit of the leftover potion and gingerly slipped the strands inside, heart thudding as he transformed. And if he’d stared at himself (shirtless) in the mirror for long while night – hiding out in the deserted Gryffindor common room where he wouldn’t be seen – well, that was really nobody’s – especially not inner Hermione’s – business, anyway.

The third time, he’s running low on excuses, so he decides to not think about it. Just watches himself, lips twitching upward as he musses the hair and imagines Malfoy shoving Harry away and fixing the mess. He rather likes his hair like this; it makes Malfoy seem human and not the unattainably imperfect Slytherin Harry can’t decide whether he wants to punch, or – no definitely just punch. Like this, mouth flickering in the hint of a smile, he makes Harry want to call him Draco and brush his hands against his cheeks, and –

Harry curls his fingers (Malfoy’s fingers) into a fist, perfectly trimmed nails digging into his palm to stop thinking. These thoughts never leave him, and he’d assume he’d been Imperio-d, if he could figure out why Malfoy wants to turn Harry into his body double to hide out in broken washrooms while staring at himself in the mirror. Narcissism, no doubt. That’s the only explanation that allows Harry to retain his sense of sanity, so he clutches at it frantically.

Then Myrtle comes up behind him, smiling slyly. Before she can say anything, he hastily drapes his invisibility cloak over himself and darts out, wanting to escape _that_ conversation. And running right into someone. A very solid someone, who Harry grips as a reflex, not wanting to fall. His stomach drops as he realizes he’s revealed his secret to this someone with surprisingly firm and smooth biceps. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on that little piece of information because quite suddenly, the air is knocked out of his lungs an he sees who it is.

Malfoy. The idiot’s back had been turned to Harry, but now he whips around, confused, and in Harry’s anger that Malfoy doesn’t have the sense to stand farther away from the washroom door, he forgets to be nervous for what happens next.

The cloak is swept off his shoulders in one fluid motion, and they stare at each other for a second before Harry twitches nervously wanting to say something, but unsure what, and Malfoy seems to be jolted back to reality. 

“What the hell?!” Malfoy yells. 

* * *

Harry nervously licks his chapped lips, fingers drumming on his thighs as Malfoy locks the door of the deserted classroom and turns to face Harry. His expression is cool, but Harry catches the repressed anger and confusion flickering in his eyes; he’s studied them too many times to not notice, a fact which surprises him, upturning his stomach pleasantly.

“Now,” Malfoy says evenly, though the quaver in his voice betrays his emotion, “What the fuck is this?!”

Harry steps back for a second, thrown off by the force of Malfoy’s rage. He doesn’t know what he’d expected when Malfoy had dragged him into this room, but he hadn’t resisted for a second, too embarrassed and guilty to even consider hexing Malfoy and escaping. He tries to put on a poker face and mirror Malfoy’s stance. Malfoy doesn’t know it’s Harry, and he’s still got around 15 minutes left before the potion wears off. If he plays his cards right, he might be able to get out of here without anyone finding out.

“What do you mean?” Harry clips out uncertainly, trying to mimic Malfoy’s tones, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy, you imbecile, and you’re obviously a Gryffindor, judging by your robes, so why in Merlin’s name are you bloody polyjuiced as me?”

Harry exhales shakily. Shit; he’d forgotten about the robes, but there’s still no way Malfoy can know it’s him. He has to think fast to save his cover; his eyes dart to the left, to the tables and chairs in the classroom, then quickly back to Malfoy.

In a split second, his wand is out. “ _Accio Table_!” The table almost slams into Malfoy, but the git was always quick on his toes, and a quick “ _Incendio”_ saves him from the damage. Harry tries a Body Bind, but Malfoy darts to the left, and Harry is struck by his grace, even in the middle of a sudden ambush. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like fighting, so instead he dodges and weaves between curses, and with an “ _Alahamora,_ ” attempts to run out of the class.

But his robes snag on a table, and then he is being yanked back, hard, and the two of them tumble until he’s lying on top of Malfoy, pinning his wrists over his head. He inhales sharply and gets a delicious whiff of lemons and salt, overcome with the reckless urge to lick a stripe up the side of Malfoy’s face. He hasn’t seen anything more beautiful than the Slytherin sprawled under him, hair in disarray and face flushed, as if he is Harry’s for the taking. Heat blossoms in his chest, and his body roars with the need to press himself closer, to capture that mouth with his own and to make sure every inch of Malfoy knows that he is Harry’s and no one else’s.

Harry’s sure Malfoy can see the open desire that is imprinted on his own eyelids and seared onto his face – it’s Malfoy’s own face after all. It suddenly strikes him, what they’re doing, and he wrenches himself off Malfoy, landing on his back with a thud. He closes his eyes for a second and tries to reign in the ridiculously inappropriate _want_ that has flooded him and is surging through his veins, before he opens his eyes. And stares, straight at the tip of a wand pointed at him.

Malfoy is panting heavily, and Harry’s unhelpful mind supplies him of images of what it would be like to have Malfoy like that on Harry’s bed, or in the shower, after they’d…

“I should have known that they’d send someone after me. It’s because of this, isn’t it?”

Malfoy rolls his sleeve up malevolently in one swift motion, and Harry notices that his arm is trembling as he reveals the Mark. His blood turns to ice as he realizes the implications of Malfoy’s statement, and suddenly the need to reassure overwhelms his instinct to cast a Stunner and flee.

“No, Malfoy, that’s not – I didn’t -”

“Like fuck it’s not,” Malfoy snarls, “You may still think I’m some Death Eater waiting to kill your Chosen One every chance I can get, but I’m not stupid enough to try to murder the bloody Saviour, or whatever you call him now, under all of your noses. And you won’t get anything out of my friends, either, because unlike the ministry, we don’t resort to backhanded tactics and Gryffindor moles and stupid potions to get what we want.”

Malfoy turns around, his sleeve still rolled up, and makes to walk out the door, but Harry throws himself at him, and slams him against the wall. He _needs_ Malfoy to understand, to see that Harry doesn’t think all those things about him, that he’s not some Death Eater, that Harry understands making mistakes and wanting to take them back and even sometimes wanting to just escape from it all. Hell, he’s even died and come back to life! If Harry can’t understand Malfoy, he doubts anyone can.

Malfoy doesn’t turn, just stays frozen. “Take your filthy hands off of me.”

“Look at me, Malfoy.”

“I said, stop touching me,” Malfoy throws out viciously.

“Malfoy – I…” He still doesn’t turn, just tries to free his hand. Harry grips it tighter, consumed by an all-too-familiar anger.

“Draco, you selfish bastard, just fucking turn around!”

Harry doesn’t realize his mistake, but it belatedly kicks into him as Malfoy turns so quickly Harry’s afraid he’ll get whiplash, and then stares, eyes widening in…what, Harry doesn’t know. His arm, the one that’s holding Malfoy so hard his knuckles are white, is darkening rapidly, and Harry doesn’t need a mirror to imagine the pale blond blackening into his usual dark mess of hair. He lets go abruptly, as if he’s been burned, and stares back into silvery irises, flecked with gold, as the search his face.

“Potter, you…?” Malfoy whispers in a tone Harry would think was wonder if it wasn’t Malfoy, because why would he _ever_ look at Harry like that? Like he’s spun of gold…in ways Harry has only imagined handfuls of times, in the half-conscious, unguarded space between sleeping and waking. 

And then he can’t help it, his heady recklessness seizes him at once, and he strides across the room, reaching for him (Malfoy!) and seeking the skin underneath his stupid robes and jumper, cool against his wandering fingertips. Malfoy’s eyes darken and heat flares in his stomach right before he leans in, letting go of all the useless words and explanations, and just taking.

Their mouths meet, and it feels like a stinging hex fired at him, burning in _just_ the right way. Malfoy makes a muffled sound as Harry cups the back of his neck and presses closer, palms skimming the unexpectedly cool skin of his stomach, and then he’s arching into Harry, meeting Harry’s tongue with his own, daring him to fight back, and Merlin, when has Harry ever been able to resist a challenge from Draco Malfoy?

When Malfoy pulls out of the kiss for air, Harry trails a line of kisses along his neck, refusing to let go of this, to let Malfoy realize what they’re doing and try to push Harry off or hex him. He’s needed this for months, and he’s not going to waste a single second of this. Malfoy is covered in the scent of lemon and spices and everything wonderful, like a million Polyjuice potions, and every single cell in Harry’s body is screaming with how right this is. Malfoy fits here, in Harry’s arms as he falls apart in moans and sighs at the kisses to his collarbone, cheek, wrist, shoulderblade, and Harry can’t explain why he spent so much time trying to dissuade himself of this.

And then Malfoy pushes Harry off abruptly, and he falls back, unwilling to let this end, but uncertain of how to react. He _can’t_ let Malfoy get away, not if that means going back to Malfoy ignoring him, or even to being enemies. And Malfoy had kissed back, so wasn’t that a good thing? Didn’t that mean that at least a tiny part of him wanted Harry too?

“Malfoy – Draco – I” Harry stutters.

“Shut up, you lying Gryffindor bastard,” Malfoy spits out, before pulling Harry to his feet, pinning him to the wall, and kissing him soundly.

And, well, if Polyjuice makes him this lucky, then he can’t wait to try the Felix felicis he’s got waiting for him when he gets to his room, along with one (hopefully) very naked Draco Malfoy. 


End file.
